


Metamorphose

by W_H_4_T



Series: Blessings of Mara [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Affection, Emotionally Repressed, Emotions, F/F, Ficlet, Fluff, Literal Sleeping Together, Romantic Friendship, Someone go get Hrongar, Sticking some character lore in there because she swore to carry yall burdens, Touch-Starved, Touchy-Feely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:33:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29476266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/W_H_4_T/pseuds/W_H_4_T
Summary: Metamorphose (Verb): To undergo or be capable of undergoing a change in form.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Lydia
Series: Blessings of Mara [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2161977
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Metamorphose

**Author's Note:**

> I once knew someone like this. 
> 
> I didn't feel the dialogue bug bite me today eh
> 
> I listened to this while writing and felt emotions that had no business being here:  
> [Gregory Alan Isakov-Words (YouTube)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CFw7AaBxatA)  
> [Gregory Alan Isakov-Words (Spotify)](https://open.spotify.com/track/01Dc5vTMc9axpkvDUy0yiD?si=4ed3d55c86304273)

The majority of Lydia’s life was spent working. From the moment she could swing a stick, she started swinging swords; an act which made her father proud. She was born of tough Nordic stock and became a decorated guardswoman at a remarkably young age. Lydia was a copy of her father; a weapon only forged to attack. To be pointed at an enemy.

She’d fought wolves, killed men and even assisted in slaying a mammoth. One doesn’t gain such a prolific amount of commendations from wasting their time. 

Lydia was always working.

This is why when Zephyr invited her downstairs, Lydia stood at attention near the cooking pit while the Breton warmed her hands at the fire. Silvery-grey eyes inspected the Nord who still wore her armour even inside the house; only ever taken it off when she slept. Zephyr, however, believed in comfort when she wasn’t slogging around Skyrim; a simple blue robe being her outfit of choice. 

There was the slight clink of steel as Lydia shuffled around by the pit, silently questioning why she was called.

Turning to the warrior, Zephyr gently posed a question with her expression calm, painted in orange and yellow light. The words fanned out like mountain winds, reminding Lydia of a time they nearly died; when an army of bandits came bearing down.

“Do you trust me, Lydia?”

It was an odd question to ask again, but the answer remained the same as Lydia nodded her head while voicing her agreement. There was no doubt in her mind, she trusted the Breton woman and had yet to be betrayed. It was something often asked by Zephyr, an assurance, an affirmation to renew what was already known. 

It was an appreciated repetition which the shieldmaiden treasured. 

“Then -if you have no qualms- I'll kindly ask that you remove your armour.”

The request wasn’t absurd neither was it impossible. The way it was said, however, with a slow, relaxed timbre and half-lidded eyes, sent Lydia’s heartbeat racing. Her throat was suddenly quite dry, her limbs, fidgety. A blonde eyebrow raised in Lydia's direction as if waiting for a response, an action, anything. 

And once more, the prolific guard of Whiterun, known for her brazen talent, bowed her head to a cryptically caring Breton mage. Years of dealing with heavy gear gave Lydia an intimate familiarity with the buckles and straps of her shell. Quietly, Zephyr observed the process; a knot undone here, a belt loosened there. It was akin to watching a violent butterfly crack through its cocoon, a creature with shrewd green eyes that remained aware and never rested.

Soon, the thick, metal casing was placed gently on the ground as Lydia rolled her shoulders to acclimatize to the change. A thin beige undershirt and dark brown woollen pants was her only protection now. Zephyr could see it in the way Lydia moved, the minute dread of being so vulnerable but no comment was made. All she did was wait for Lydia to find her way, to grow more confident in this space before speaking again. 

“Sit here, please.”

Quietly, the Nord stalked over, her frame still proud but slightly unsure with every step; the lack of amour was affecting her gait, both in weight and moxie. 

There was a small pillow placed by the Breton’s feet where Lydia sat in front of the fire, staring blankly at the front door with her knees drawn up. Unconsciously, the Nord pulled her legs tightly against her body, hiding her chest behind something, anything.

A few breaths were taken in this strange situation, every moment was new to Lydia; her only memories were the barracks, the guards, fighting, roughhousing.

Such reprieve was uncommon. It felt more familiar to be ordered around than to be let loose. Maybe one day she’ll learn to break those ingrained constraints herself, but for now, Zephyr assisted, guiding her to lay down her arms.

Ordering her to rest.

“May I?” 

Keeping the same tone, Zephyr spoke to match the crackling fire, entrancing and warm, as she held a lock of Lydia’s hair between her fingers. A small noise of approval escaped the Housecarl as she leaned back till her back pressed into Zephyr’s knees. 

Dirt-smudged digits were clean within Breezehome and though her fingers were coarse from years of archery, Zephyr’s hands were nothing if not gentle. The metal band keeping Lydia’s braid together was given a short tug, releasing its hold on her hair. Hooking her fingers through the plaits, Zephyr loosened the style, before combing her hands through the rough, soap-damaged strands. With nothing but the fire in her senses and the hands running along her head, Lydia found herself falling asleep under the soft touches, her shoulders losing its constant tension, her body losing rigidity. 

For her entire life, every muscle stood starkly, ready to move, ready to do something, anything. 

But now, as Zephyr continued playing with her hair, there was nothing to be wary of. Nothing to attack or guard or even prepare for. Her throat tightened, her nose stung, a variety of emotions, none of which she was prepared for came crashing down. There was nothing soft about her, yet, as Zephyr held her, treated her with compassion -cared for her- Lydia found herself emoting everything she once buried.

Slowly closing, watery green eyes continued staring at the door before gazing elsewhere, leaning back further and further, slowly slipping away to sleep. Raised by guards, by a stoic father and no one else, Lydia didn’t quite know of affection, she knew of working to make herself stand out, to show her ability despite her origins. She’d disowned Mara’s teachings long ago and in the cyclical style of the Goddess’ wrath, Lydia found herself knowing those tender feelings -bubbling in her chest- chipping away the taciturn stone of her upbringing. 

Zephyr allowed the Nord to sink backwards, adjusting herself to move down from her chair till she found herself pressed against Lydia’s back, nestling into her shoulder. Heavy, even breaths competed with quiet sips of air as both fell away, laying down by the fire, undisturbed, unmoving and unperturbed. Neither stirred when Lydia felt Zephyr's arm snake around her waist or when she laced their fingers together. They remained on the hard, stone floor with only the rug and Mara’s meddling to keep them from rousing.

Much later on, Zephyr would wake in her bed, gripping the sheets closely before looking around the room. She would try to reaffirm reality, to question the truth of her dreams before staring at a figure seated on a nearby chair.

Lydia, asleep, with half eaten bread on the table, wearing nothing but a peaceful expression and her under armour garb; the only proof Zephyr needed.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there thanks for reading!
> 
> Pretty weird segment huh. Well, I like weird chapters. That's how it be sometimes


End file.
